A Myth of Devotion
by transemacabre
Summary: Pre-movie. The story of young Odin, Laufey, and Frigga, and legendary devotion... and legendary bitterness. Heavily inspired by mythology.
1. Chapter 1

_"He wants to say I love you, nothing can hurt you_  
><em>but he thinks<em>  
><em>this is a lie, so he says in the end<em>  
><em>you're dead, nothing can hurt you<em>  
><em>which seems to him<em>  
><em>a more promising beginning, more true."<em>  
>- 'A Myth of Devotion' by Louise Glück<p>

* * *

><p>When mankind was yet new to the northlands, and cast their eyes to the skies and prayed, they sent their prayers to Herfodr Bor, Father of Hosts, king of the <em>aesir<em>, who dwelled in the land of Asaheim. And in Asaheim was found Bor's stronghold, Asgard, and in Asgard was found the silver-thatched _valaskjalf_, the hall where Bor himself did dwell, along with his people.

Within this hall, in the dark of night, a child slept, forgotten. The shouts of men and the growl of thunder and the cracking of wood woke him; little Odin sat up fearfully, peering into a darkness so absolute that for a moment he thought he might be blind. But he turned his head, and saw a sliver of light slipping through the crack between his door and the wall. The light flickered; his father's warriors stomped past, walking by torchlight, their heavy feet shaking the walls and floors of Bor's _valaskjalf_. Odin waited until the light was nearly gone, then slipped from his bed and fled down the hall on bare and silent feet.

Odin could hear the roar of men boasting, then the sound of metal-on-metal; there was fighting in Valholl. Above the din, there boomed a loud and powerful laugh, the laughter of King Bor himself. Perhaps his sword had drank of heart's blood, weapon's mead. Odin ran away from Valholl, hugging the walls and keeping to the shadows, and made his way to his mother's chambers. No torches lit his path, and Odin went by memory and feeling. He crept into Bestla's chambers, standing on tip-toes to pluck at the furs hanging from her bed. Bestla herself slept atop the furs, naked. She stirred, and in the darkness Odin saw her eyes glow red like coals, and then she reached down and picked him up one-handed.

Odin rested his head in the curve between her breast and her shoulder. Her hand, tipped with wicked black nails, tenderly cupped his skull. The lady Bestla was immense, a head taller than her husband, and that was because she was a giant and no lady at all.

"My broodling," she murmured, "did the noise wake you?"

Odin nodded into her shoulder. Bestla sighed, and her breath frosted against Odin's skin. His mother's magicks gave her the form of a woman, and without those enchantments her touch would blacken the skin of any _aesir_, with the sole exception of the child she had borne, but the only indication of this was Bestla's icy breath.

"What did I tell you to do, when you are frightened?"

"To study my runes," Odin said, but added, "But it is too dark, mother!"

"Dam," Bestla reminded him gently. "Jotnar have no mothers, we have dams."

"But I'm an Asgardian," Odin said stubbornly.

"And I am not," said Bestla. Her hands closed over his, and Odin remembered the many lessons she had given him in rune-magicks, her hands guiding his much smaller ones as he learned the shapes of the runes, just as his father's hands guided Odin's hands as he learned to shape wood. "Charms to guard you in battle," Bestla said, and Odin mouthed the runes' names silently. "Charms to blunt the weapons of your foes. Charms to break chains. Charms to quiet the ocean's storms, and charms so that a lover will scorn you not." She clutched Odin tight to her. "Twas the last charm that bound your sire to me."

Bestla had told Odin the story many times, so that Odin thought he had always known it, had it whispered in his ear as he lay in his cradle, had it sang into his marrow even as he grew beneath Bestla's beating heart. Of how Bestla, born genderless, of the blood of ancient Ymir, had forsaken her home to follow Bor Burasson here to Asgard, had forsaken her Jotun form for that of an _ásynjur_ woman, and sat faithfully at Bor's feet ever since. And from them was born Odin, the first of a new breed, for this was before the _vanir_ had deigned to mix their proud blood with Jotuns and _aesir_ alike, before Heimdall's nine mothers had brought him forth. Never had there been a child born such as Odin.

"Nothing loves as a Jotun loves," Bestla promised her son. "For our love is more eternal than the sun and the moon, which may be devoured by wolves and die, but a Jotun's love is never devoured and never dies; and more eternal than the _aesir_ themselves, for it is Idunn's apples which give them life eternal, and without them they would starve, but a Jotun's love never starves and never dies. Bestla loves Bor so long as there is a Bestla."

In her grip, Odin shivered.

The door flew open, and slammed against the wall. Odin shook in his mother's grip, but Bestla herself did not flinch. Silhouetted against the doorway, backlit by a flickering torch held by drunken servants, stood Bor. Bor Burasson, Bor Asgard's-king, Bor Father-of-Hosts. He stumbled forward into the bedchambers, groaning, "Blast it, help me shuck these boots."

Bestla abandoned Odin on the bed, and knelt before her husband, pulling the boots from his feet. Bor leaned upon her shoulder, swaying slightly. He looked up and only then did he see Odin, and his eyes went wide. "What in all the Hels is the boy doing here!" Bor cried.

"Odin was frightened by the din," Bestla told him, pushing the boots aside. "Our broodling sought me here. Let Odin stay the night, and sleep between us."

Bor pulled off his shirt, revealing a muscular torso crisscrossed with scars and streaked with soot; Asgard's king must've fallen into the fireplace while brawling in Valholl. "I came to your chambers tonight to lie with you," he told Bestla. "The boy was not part of it. Send him back to his room. I don't like the way you coddle him anyway, you'll make him strange, filling his head with that Frost Giant nonsense."

Bestla regarded him reproachfully. "If you would have me, then have me," she told him. "But you are Odin's sire, speak to Odin yourself. Speak not through me."

Bor groaned but kicked at the bed, shouting, "Out, out with you!", sending Odin tumbling from the furs and running for the door. At the threshold Odin stopped, peeking back in, hoping to see his mother upbraiding his father for his cruelty, but all he saw was Bor already pushing Bestla back onto the bed. So he fled back down the hall, back the way he'd come.

The night was darker still, and somewhere on the slippery path to his chambers Odin stumbled and went sprawling. He landed on his belly, his hands scraping the stones, his foot twisting painfully. He lay frozen for a moment until dull pain seeped into his consciousness, and Odin whimpered and curled in on himself. His whimper echoed down the hall, but no one came to find him, and that made him sob, for he felt very small and very alone. He wanted Bestla to come and fuss over him; he wanted Bor to come and sweep him up in his strong arms.

Footsteps behind him, and Odin's sob hitched in his throat, and relief flooded his body. Had his parents heard him after all? But the footsteps were much too light to belong to either Bor or Bestla, and Odin's joy burned away like morning's dew when he realized it was just some stranger. Some court lady or guard come to stare at the princeling's scraped knees and palms.

But it was none of these. Odin looked up to see a girl, golden as a sovereign, younger even than he. She came and sat beside him, and rubbed his back. "Are you hurt bad?" she asked. "Should I go fetch my father?"

Odin sniffed. "What is your father going to do to help me?"

"My father is a great healer," the girl assured him. "If your ankle is broken, he can fix it." Her hand hovered over his ankle. "May I touch?"

Odin was afraid he'd howl from pain, but he didn't want her to know that. "If you wish," he said.

She rested her hand on the ankle, and there was a little pain, but when Odin didn't flinch or cry out she began to rub gently. They sat there for some minutes as the girl rubbed sensation back into Odin's aching ankle, and he wiped at his face and said, "I think I can walk now."

"Let me help," she said, and put his arm about her shoulder and walked with him to his chambers. When they made it to his door, Odin turned to tell her goodnight, but she dropped a curtsey before he could say a word.

He flushed. "You knew all along I was the prince?"

The girl smiled. "Of course I knew." And from far down the hall came a cry, a woman's voice calling for Frigga! Frigga! and she quickly said, "I have to be going. Farewell!"

"Thank you," Odin said, but she was already gone.

Odin sought after her for some days, without success. There were not so many children in Asgard; there were many warriors in gleaming helms, many beautiful women clad in furs or silks or sometimes even belts made of coins, but few children. All he knew was that the girl's name was Frigga, and that her father was a healer, but that helped him but little. At last, Odin went to King Bor, who was sitting at the head of his table, supping with a host of warriors to his left and a host of warriors to his right.

Odin approached respectfully, waiting to be acknowledged. Bor was in a good mood tonight, and when he saw his son he pulled him into his lap and favored him with a bite from the succulent meat he held. "That's a good lad! Eat hearty! You'll grow into a great warrior yet... perhaps a king one day!"

Odin twisted in his father's lap and peered up at him. "Father-King," he said, "may I ask you a question?"

Bor drank deeply of his mead and slammed the empty tankard on the table, demanding more from the serving wenches. "Go ahead," he said.

"Do you know of a girl named Frigga?" Odin chewed at his lip. "Her father is a healer-"

"A girl!" Laughter bubbled from Bor's throat. "You hear that?" he asked, turning to the nearest of his warriors. "Already asking after a girl. He's my son, that's for sure!" His warriors roared with laughter.

Odin despaired, but then a tall figure draped himself over Bor's shoulder and whispered into Odin's ear, "Fear not, my prince. I know of whom you speak, she is Fjorgyn's daughter." Odin looked up to see the god Od, his father's oldest friend, the god of comings and goings. It had been Od who had given Odin his tooth-gift when Odin grew his first tooth; it had been Od who'd given Odin his name.

When Bestla brought the newly born child to Bor, Bor had been unsure of what to do with him. To feed and clothe and name him was to accept him as his heir, but how could a half-breed Jotun rule Asgard? And yet Odin was his first-born son and no man wishes to cast out a healthy boy to die. So Bor turned to his oldest friend, Od, who advocated for the mewling, helpless child.

"Let him live," urged Od. "I know the boy has a grand fate."

"Very well," said Bor. "But though Bestla and I may have given him life, so have you, and so he shall bear your name. As you are Od, he shall be Odin."

And so it was that Odin came to bear his name, which like Od's meant something between poetry and frenzy.

* * *

><p>Od and Odin agreed to meet the next evening. It was a propitious decision, for Bestla chose that morning to go into one of her trances, and when she was lost to the spirit world no one might reach her, not even her son; nor did he wish to, for the first time he had seen his mother go into her trance, Odin had been filled with a sort of horror unlike anything he knew. It was like watching ice break off a glacier and crash into the sea, or the cry a deer makes when its heart's blood stains its breast, and it gives itself up for lost.<p>

The _vanir_ women who lived in Asgard practiced _seid_, but the art had been taught to them by the _jotnar_, who had perfected a raw and frightening form of magick, the purest form of which was practiced by none but themselves. Their ancestors had divined the future with runes long before the _vanir_ or _aesir_ had sat in silver-thatched halls and fed themselves on good meat. While Bestla was in her trances, it was not unknown for fire to be sighted in the skies above Asgard, or for ancient trees to crack and groan, and blood pour from their limbs. When she was in her trances, Bestla would turn away even King Bor from her door. This was the only time she saved to herself.

Odin obediantly met up with Od at the bottom of the long flight of stairs. Od awaited him, whittling something from a block of wood with his knife. When he saw Odin, he pocketeted both knife and wood and swept the boy up into his arms. "Ah, look at you, you scamp! Doesn't the queen dress you more warmly than this?"

Odin flushed. The truth was he had dressed himself; he had slept beside Bestla in her big bed, and woke to find her burning wood in her grate. Knowing what this meant, Odin had put on his wrinkled tunic from the day before, clumsily wound his leg wrappings around his legs, and snuck from her chambers to scrounge up some food for himself. The maidservants had fled in terror hours before - it was said anyone struck by the queen's gaze while she practiced _seid_ would be accursed. King Bor's halls were mostly empty, and Odin assumed the king was gone boar-hunting. He half-thought Od would have gone with him, forgotten his promise from yesterday, and was pleased to be proven wrong.

Seeing the boy's embarassment, Od quickly shucked his own cap and sat in on Odin's head, a favor that made the boy smile, then sat him down and draped his own cloak over Odin's shoulders for warmth. "Come along," Od said, "and follow after, and be quiet."

Odin followed him down to the sacred grove, walking quickly to remain in-step with Od, and remain hidden in the dark folds of his cloak. The cool air whirled about them, playing with their hair and tweaking their noses, and it seemed to Odin that other, stranger, things danced just out of sight, on the fringes of perception, in the encroaching darkness.

Once inside the grove, Od went to lay beneath the gaping roots of a tree so long dead it had petrified into stone, and gestured for Odin to join him. There they laid for some minutes, until dusk's dark veil covered them completely. In the distance came a glow; and Odin watched as the glow came closer, and coalesced into torches, torches held by the uplifted hands of a small group of womenfolk. _Vanir_, distinguished by their surreally blue eyes and surreally blonde hair, even in the dim light; all but for the youngest, an Asgardian girl whom Odin recognized as Frigga, Fjorgyn's daughter. She carried a basket and went barefoot, despite the cold. The women stopped before an ancient apple tree, and the tallest and most beautiful of the women, Idunn by name, stepped forward and cupped one of the fruit with her hand. Odin watched as her lips moved, as she chanted or, as he liked to imagine, coaxed the tree to give up its fruit. The apple came loose in her hand, and Idunn dropped it into the basket that Frigga held aloft for her.

Odin tilted his head to peer up at Od. The elder god watched Idunn rapturously. With the innocence and wisdom of a child, Odin understood that Od loved her, had perhaps come here and watched her gather the sacred apples on many occasions.

The basket of sacred apples seemed to give off its own light, and as Frigga leaned over them, the soft glow illuminated her features, revealing the curve of her cheek, the benificent curve of her lips. Odin had known it was her at once; he had not needed his eyes to see, but he was glad of them, nonetheless.

In her chambers in Asgard, Bestla's black nail scratched across a plank of blackened wood in three jagged motions. They moved of their own accord, and she gazed in wonder at the rune she had cast. As she did in all her trances, she sought time and again for scraps of Odin's fate. In the fire-charred wood was etched the first rune of Futhark, a secret to Odin's fate. Bestla sealed this knowledge within her secret self, and cast the wood and its rune back into the grate. Some things were too sacred to be known by others.


	2. Chapter 2

Nights and days passed, and a great feast was held. It was Odin's name-day; he was a year nearer to manhood. The hall of Bor Father-of-Hosts was filled with guests and dignitaries, fierce warriors clad in bear-skins, beauteous maidens dancing in coined belts and beaded veils. At this feast, King Bor gave Odin the seat of honor at his right hand, and they ate from the same plate. From Od, Odin received his first dagger, the first true weapon he'd ever owned, made small for a boy's hand. Odin wore it proudly on his belt.

Everyone was getting well and truly drunk when the doors flew open, and a handful of new guests joined the festivities, blown in from the cold in a gust of snow and ice. "Bah!" cried King Bor, and he let fly a string of curses, but Bestla lept from her place at his side and flew into the arms of a strange figure: a Jotun two-heads-taller than an Asgardian, clad only in an animal's skin. As Bestla's arms wound around this stranger, her Asgardian form bled away, and Odin watched as the courtiers cringed, repelled by the sight of their queen's skin burning blue, her eyes shining red.

But as Bestla pulled back, the enchantment took hold, and only her hand, which firmly clasped the Jotun's own, remained its true color. "Odin," she said, urging him to come forward, "come and meet my broodmate."

King Bor merely glowered, and did not forbid him to move, so Odin left the table and approached his mother and her - her sibling, he realized. The Jotuns had no gender, and consequently had no brothers or sisters, but siblings, born of the same sire and dam, whom they loved full well as much as an Asgardian might love his or her brother or sister. Perhaps more, for Odin had never heard of Jotuns slaying their brothers, and that happened often enough at King Bor's court.

"Odin," rumbled Bestla's sibling in a voice that deeper and darker than the most perilous ravine. A brother, Odin decided immediately. "So you are Bestla's youngling. Have you earned your honor-name yet?"

"O Mimir," Bestla sighed, curling an arm around Odin to pull him close, "Asgardians do not change their names through their lifetime. Bor gave Odin his name at birth, and Odin he will remain all his days."

"Passing strange," said Mimir, narrowing his eyes. "But the ways of Asgardians are oft strange. Come, Odin; I have journeyed from afar, and bring you a guest-friend."

At that, a small face peered out from behind Mimir. All arms and legs hands too big for his body, this was Nál, Mimir explained, the heir of Jotunheim's _allsherjargodi_, whom the Asgardians called a king. Nál was perhaps half-a-head taller than Odin, and so Odin guessed he must be quite young. They sized one another up for a moment before Nál cautiously reached out and pinched Odin's shoulder between thumb and forefinger.

Odin snorted softly. "Wanted to get a-hold of me and see if I'm real?"

Nál's mouth fell open in a friendly grin. "Aye!" he said, so cheerfully that Odin knew at once he'd meant no offense. Nál was, after all, younger than himself, and had likely never encountered another prince before (Odin had, on rare state ocassions, seen princes from Álfheim, but Bor had told him that the _Ljósálfar_, the Light Elves, had more self-proclaimed 'princes' than a dog has fleas). Odin took out his new dagger and showed it to him, and Nál was properly awed. Soon enough, they were tumbling in the rushes like puppies.

Bestla looked on fondly as Mimir went forth to meet with King Bor. He made proper obeisance, neither groveling nor showing any sign of disrespect. King Bor was not noted for his temperance. "Bor Father-of-Hosts, I bring glad-tidings from the _allsherjargodi _Hauk. May we share bread and mead with you?"

Bor grumbled under his breath. To share bread and mead would be to take the Jotuns as guest-friends - something he was wroth to do since that humiliating row years ago which had resulted in Bestla fleeing to his court to throw herself on his mercy. But it had not been Hauk who cast her out, he reminded himself, but Afa, Hauk's brother, now moldering in his grave. Afa, who had sought Bestla for himself, Afa who had claimed Odin for his own even after Bor had consented to acknowledge the boy. Afa, who dared march to the gates of Asgard itself. Had anyone in all the realms ever been so deluded as King Afa?

The wooden tankard in Bor's hand splintered under his grip. "Share the mead. Share the bread." Let it never be said Bor Burason could forget not old grudges. "Who is the Jotunling my son plays with?"

Mimir inclined his head gracefully. "That is Hauk's heir, young Nál, whom Hauk has sent with me in hopes you would consent to foster the child."

Bor blinked in surprise. "Foster him? Why?" No Jotun other than Bestla had ever lived in Asgard, much less requested to send their child - a prince - to be reared in his halls.

"My people believe younglings learn better manners in other people's homes," Mimir said. "It would not be for so long - just until Nál earns an honor-name. The _allsherjargodi _Hauk hopes that Nál will learn to sport with spear and sword, and, of course, that Nál and young Odin, my own sibling's child, will become guest-friends."

Bor scratched at the dark stubble on his neck. "He entrusts me to rear his child?"

"To rear a king," Mimir said. He inhaled deeply, hoping that King Bor grasped the enormity of what was offered him. Mimir, alone of all the souls in this hall, had any idea of how dear Nal was to Jotunheim, and how dearly his life had been bought. Afa had died without an heir; when the second sibling, Hauk, took Afa's place, the _jotnar _despaired, for Hauk had mated a third sibling, and the royal family was known to be not bountiful. This collapsed bloodline seemed destined to be fruitless. Years passed, and Hauk's sibling-mate, Igda, became ever more desperate, resorting to seid unknown to all but the most freakish of practioners. What it had cost Igda to finally bring forth Nál might never be known; Mimir feared it might cost Igda's very soul. The youngling had been born so weak that it was thought all in vain, but somehow it had survived to be given a milk-name: Nál, needle, for his stick-like limbs.

The care of Nál, the jewel of Hauk's court, had been entrusted to Mimir. And now Mimir had been sent to King Bor, who had taken Bestla as consort. Life was, indeed, full of wonders.

King Bor studied the two princes as they wrestled, trying to see who could break the other's hold. "Much will be said about this," he told Mimir. "They will say that I love monsters. That I am allowing my son to be reared as a Jotun. You know what will be said."

"I will trust your judgment."

Bor cursed again, striking his fist on the table before him. "It will not be for long! Swear it, Mimir. The boy will earn his name and then return to Jotunheim, where he belongs. And you, you will hold no honors at this court. I will not have it be said I favor Bestla's kin over mine own."

Mimir bowed again. "It is sworn."

The news that Nál was to stay on as his foster brother left Odin thunderstruck. Bestla clapped her hands joyfully as King Bor made the announcement, but Odin was beyond speaking.

"I'm staying!" Nál cried happily. He grasped Odin by the shoulders and shook him.

"F-forever?" asked Odin in his littlest voice. He had never dared imagine a playmate, much less one of like age and rank, staying with him in Asgard.

His uncle Mimir cleared his throat. "Nál will, of course, have duties of his own to attend to one day in Jotunheim," he told Odin. "But he will be raised in the halls of Asgard, and I will remain with him, as his _kennari, _tutor."

Bestla knelt at the foot of Bor's throne, her cheek resting against his knee. Her eyes were soft, and she wore the secret smile Odin loved to see on her. She was pleased, he saw at once; her kin were honored, and the Jotun princeling would grow alongside her son, to be close as brothers.

King Bor favored her by stroking his hands through her hair. His stormy mood, ever changeable, was now all fair winds. He felt at once his decision was the right one. Yes, Mimir was to stay here as well, but that was no shame to him, for a man's good-brother ought to have a seat of honor at his table. As for Nál, Bor would see to it they made an Asgardian out of him, and perhaps he and Odin together could undo some of the bad blood between Asgard and Jotunheim. The boys themselves were rapturous at the news; Bor had not noticed how lonely Odin had seemed until he had Nál to romp about with.

Shortly thereafter, Nál and his things were moved into Odin's chambers, and Mimir slept nearby. No longer did Odin awake in fright to a darkened, empty room. Now Nál's own deep breathing lulled him to sleep at night, and Odin spent no more nights sleeping in Bestla's bed. Mimir took over their studies, and Odin soon discovered how little he had known of Jotun magic. Bestla had taught him what she knew, but Mimir was a master of _seid_, and he had journeyed to many realms, and knew many kings by name. He knew how to skin-walk, and the secret names of things, and Odin felt sure that if he sat at Mimir's feet for a thousand years, he would not learn all Mimir knew.

Two days after Nál's arrival, Odin took him deep within the bowels of Asgard, following mossy steps so deep underground that the walls became cold to the touch, and the air smelled curiously of something that had been burnt long ago. The boys peeped around a corner to see a guard standing before an arched entryway and a heavy wooden door.

"_What are you two doing here_?"

Odin whirled around, his finger already at his lips, and startled so at the sight of her that he nearly tumbled backward and into the guard's full view. Frigga stood at the base of the steps, a satchel in hand.

"Eh? _Hush, you_!" Nál hissed at her, and the guard momentarily forgotten, he scampered to get a closer look. "Odin!" he said in a whisper that he thought was much softer than it was. "Look at it! What's wrong with it?"

Before Frigga could respond in outrage, Odin ran over and pulled Nál back, saying, "There's naught wrong with her, she's just a girl. Like my mother, only smaller."

"Bestla isn't a girl, Bestla is a Jotun," Nál told him, as though explaining something obvious to a very thick-headed person. "And she is nothing like Bestla. She smells strange."

"Strange!" Frigga jutted her chin out.

Odin shushed them as he pushed them further down the hall, out of the guard's hearing. "What are you doing down here, you're not supposed to be here," said Frigga.

"What are _you _doing here?" Odin turned the question back on her.

Frigga showed him the satchel in her hands. "I'm fetching and carrying for my father," she told him. Narrowing her eyes, she went on. "Don't you have lessons or something to be getting to?"

Odin shushed her once more, then looked about to make sure no one but themselves and Nál were about. "I'm taking Nál to see the royal treasure vault," he said.

Frigga's mouth fell open in shock. "You can't do that! The king will have you whipped!"

"Don't tell us what we can't do-" Nál began, but Odin pushed him back, bidding him keep quiet. Frigga looked from Odin to Nál, and then back to Odin.

"One day," Odin said confidently, "all Asgard will be mine to rule. If I want to show my friend the treasure vault, that's up to me."

"The guard will never let you by," Frigga pointed out, but even as she spoke, they heard approaching footsteps. The three children ducked into the sheltering shadows, and the young _ásynjur _woman who walked by was so intent on where she was going that she did not notice the small dark forms huddled in the darkness. She rounded the corner, and the next moment they heard her talking to the guard.

Instinctively knowing this was his chance, Odin crept closer and peeped back out. The woman obviously knew the guard, as she stepped forward and spoke to him in low, sensual tones. Odin motioned to Nál to join him by his side.

"_Even if you get past the guard, how will you get through the doors_?" whispered Frigga. Odin opened his palm to reveal runes drawn on his hand in red ocher. This spell, said to unlock any door barred to him, had been taught to him and Nál only this morning by Mimir. He hoped to put it to good use today.

Reluctantly, Frigga followed after the boys as they slipped by the guard and his woman. Odin touched the discolored metal lock on the door, and a moment later the door swung open with a creak. Frigga flinched and glanced guitily over at the guard, but the guard had backed his lover against the wall and had his hand working busily under her skirt. Leaving them, Frigga followed Odin and Nál into the treasure vault. The door slid shut behind them, almost catching the hem of Frigga's dress as it closed.

Once within the vault, Frigga's teeth began chattering and she pulled her cloak tightly about her. Nál gave her a sidelong glance she misliked. _Not all of us are icy-blooded Frost Giants_, she wanted to tell him, but did not dare. Odin trotted on ahead, looking to the right and left as he went, Nál's long legs bringing him into step with Odin in moments.

"Look! The spear Gungnir!" Odin marveled at the legendary weapon. If it stood here as just another spoil of war, he could not imagine what else might lie within. He looked over to see Nál gaping at the huge axe which King Bor had, in ages past, taken from the crazed Titan Typhon.

Ahead of them, they found many more treasures: a strange tablet writ with words they could not read, a mounted orb that curiously seemed to gaze on them as though it were an eye, and then a polished mirrored surface that Odin almost passed by until he noticed something odd about it. The mirrored surface, if viewed from the front, appeared to be a mirror standing at the height of a man, but when one stepped to the side, it seemed to disappear, as though it possessed no width.

"It's - it's lacking a dimension," said Nál wonderingly. "What do you think it does?" He reached out to tap the surface with a black nail.

"Isn't everything in here a weapon?" asked Frigga, looking about fearfully. Then she gasped aloud as she watched Nál's finger sink into the mirrored surface, as though it were not a mirror at all, but rather a doorway.

"Hold still!" Odin commanded, and he stepped to the side. Sure enough - although from the front one could see Nál's hand simply pass through the mirror, from the side one could see nothing at all. Nál's finger seemed to disappear into thin air.

Frigga clasped her hands over her mouth. "There's something terrible about that thing," she mumbled through her fingers. "Leave it alone! Please!"

"Oh, don't be such a -" Nál began to say, but in that moment a hand reached out and caught the tip of his finger, and in shock he jerked back so hard that he tumbled over onto his bottom. A cackling voice seemed to emanate from the mirror.

"What was _that_?" cried Nál, red eyes a-glow in the dim light. Odin leaped forward and peered into the mirror, and to his amazement, a curious face peered back.

The face belonged to a creature about his size, its features monkey-like but hairless. It blinked its mismatched eyes, one and then the other, and said, "Oh, did I gives ye a fright?" Its voice bubbled with humor, as though it did not so much speak as giggle. Odin's mouth moved but he was unable to speak. Then not one, not two, but three faces appeared, one a little snub-nosed, the second with peculiar curling whiskers, the third delicately feminine. As one, they all chattered in identical voices, reaching out hands that could not pass through the mirrored surface.

"Do they live in there?" Nál asked, wiggling Odin aside so he could get a look. The four creatures trilled at this, their tongues lolling out as a dog's might, their curious but cheerful faces lighting up at the sight of him.

"Do we lives in here!" cried one.

"It's ye who lives out there!" said another, giggling as though this were a great joke at Nál's expense.

"We would loves to join ye," said a third, thrusting out its bottom lip in mimicry of a pout. "But we cannot passes over to your side!"

Odin tried to sound authoritative. "Are there princes of your race who would speak to us?"

That brought on renewed laughter. "All of we is princes," said the snub-nosed creature. "Except on the twenty-fifth hour of every day, when we be not."

Odin wasted precious moments trying to make sense of this. Nál forged on right ahead. "I am Nál, and this is my friend, Odin," he told the entrapped creatures. "We are great princes of our people. Have you come to greet us and bring us tribute, as befits our rank?"

"Oh yes! Oh yes!" the creature with the mismatched eyes spoke above all the rest, although their mouths brimmed with positives, too. "You must be joinings us! We have such merries to make, oh, you'll forgets all your troubles."

Odin sank a hand into the mirrored surface; his hand sank through, and the creatures grasped at it in friendship, but when he drew back, they remained trapped on the other side. "It looks like you and I can pass through this gate, but they can't," he told Nál.

"Let's go and meet them!" Nál said eagerly.

"No!" Frigga ran forward and tugged at their shirts, trying to pull them back. "Please don't go in there! You don't know what's on the other side."

Nál scoffed at her. "And you do? Think, Odin, it's our chance to explore a new world, a world even Mimir has never been to!"

Odin studied the creatures in the mirror as they waved their hands at them in greeting. They seemed harmless enough, and he and Nál could just climb back through the portal to their world whenever they cared to. "All right, let's go!"

Frigga made a wordless cry of dismay when he said that. Odin sighed. "You don't have to go if you don't want to," he told her, not wanting to seem like he was sweet on her in front of Nál. He did like Frigga, but it seemed like all she'd done today was follow him about and scold him. He was ready for adventure.

"It's not safe!" she cried, but Odin was already climbing through the mirror. The creatures grasped him by his hands and shoulders and head, pulling him the rest of the way, and Nál caught hold of his leg and was pulled in after him.

The first thing Odin felt upon entry to this new world was a strange rush of blood to his head. _Gravity! I'm the wrongside-up_! He almost plummeted forward, but one of the creatures caught him under the arms and fixed him solidly to the craggy ground on which it stood. Nál howled as he came through, just as disoriented as Odin, but this time two of the creatures caught him and swung him between them.

"What - what -" Odin's head swam. Although his feet were afixed to the craggy ground, below him he saw yet more ground, and felt the odd tug of gravity on the top of his head, making his hair stand on end. When he looked to the right and left he saw reality twisting about him in peculiar ways; here there was empty air, there pools of water suspended in midair, there a cleft of earth leading up or down or both ways at once.

The creatures capered about this odd landscape joyously; they had no fear. And when Odin took a cautious step, he did not fall to his doom on the rocks below. It was as though every surface in this world possessed its own gravity, and one might, with a little effort, climb from one surface to another. This world utterly lacked a true up or down.

When Odin stuck his head between his knees, he saw behind him the polished surface behind him, like a trapdoor in a floor. Looking through it, as though through a window, he saw Frigga's face, white with fright.

"Follow we! Follow we!" urged their hosts, and the creatures ran forward and pulled at his sleeves and tunic until Odin was stumbling after them. Nál, still reeling from disorientation, crawled more slowly. Reaching a cliff, the creatures simply stepped over, and following them, Odin found that the opposing face of the cliff also possessed its own gravity, holding him fast. Aways ahead, he spied a tent of foreign make, and as he neared it, Odin saw that it held a table piled high with food and drink.

The creatures gestured for him and Nál to take seats. "You likes us?" asked the creature with the mismatched eyes, climbing right up into Odin's lap.

"Your world is... amazing!" That was all Odin could think to say. The creature forced handfuls of food on him, and somehow Odin found a cup balanced precariously in his lap.

"So long since we hads distinguished guests!" said the creature with the feminine features, slapping her hands together.

"Distinguished guests!" echoed her friends. The mismatched eyed creature lept from Odin's lap and perched upon the table, watching him expectantly. When he turned, Odin saw a line of buttons up his back, and with a start, Odin saw that the buttons did not hold any clothing, but appeared to be _sewn into the creature's skin_.

"Nál!" he said, sitting upright. "Wait!"

Nál paused with a bit of bread halfway to his mouth. Neither he nor Odin had yet partaken of their hosts' goods. "What's wrong?"

"Look closer, Nál. _Closer_." Odin lifted his cup in his hand, but as he applied a little pressure, it cracked and revealed rotting wood. Nál, stunned, fisted his own bread and opened his hand to find it crumbled to dust. Around them, the creatures began tittering excitedly.

"It pleases not?" asked the creature with the curly whiskers in a disapproving tone. For the first time, Odin noticed the stitches that laced its head to its neck.

"It's trash," said Odin, standing up and pushing away his chair. "Your whole world, it's all made of trash."

Nál likewise stood, and flung the handful of dust upon the ground. "What is the meaning of this!"

The creatures lolled their tongues at them again, and Odin saw how the saliva glinted on their mouthful of small, pointy teeth. "Stay back," he commanded, pulling his little dagger from his place on his belt. "Don't touch us." Nál iced up his hand, creating a blue-white dagger that was brittle but sharp as knives.

At that the creatures made a sound not of fear, but of glee, and then Odin knew they had come for a fight. He pressed his back to Nál's so that both faced the creatures head on. "I don't want to die like this," Nál muttered.

The mismatched eyed creature pounced on them from above. Odin thrust his dagger upward, into its gut, and sand spilled out. "They're not alive!" Odin gagged in horror. "They're just walking dolls!"

Nál's ice flechettes caught two of the others full in the face, and they skittered backwards; caught off guard, they had not anticipated a ranged attack. The whiskered creature wisely flung a chair at Nál instead, the chair absorbing the impact of his flechettes. Odin kicked the mismatched-eyed creature away from him, but in a moment it had found its feet and was springing for him.

"YOU DARE!"

The tent caved in around them all. Entrapped in the folds of fabric, Odin fought to rip his way clear. Nál was a bit faster, and he drug Odin out of the remains of the tent a moment later. As they tumbled away, Odin looked up and saw his father, King Bor, kick over the last pole of the tent. In the fabric wriggled four small forms as they scrambled to free themselves. King Bor brought down his axe upon one, cleaving it neatly in twain. Another he crushed underfoot, and the last two, he pulled from the wreckage and held them aloft.

Though Bor clutched them by the necks, the creatures had no need of air, and so spoke. "O mighty lord!" said the one held in his right fist, and the creature held in his left fist said, "O mercy!"

"You wretches," said Bor as he hefted them up to look him in the eye. "You near to killed my only son and my fosterling!"

"O king," said the creature caught in his right fist, "we cannot help it! It is in our natures."

King Bor flung them upon the ground, and before they could crawl away, or before Nál and Odin could avert their eyes, he stepped one foot on each of them, and then reached down with his powerful hands and pulled the creatures limb from limb. Sand and dust spilled from their guts, and their heads fell back, their mouths wide open as though in silent scream.

This being done, Bor turned his attention back to the boys. Snatching Nál and Odin up by the napes of their necks, he stomped back the way they'd came, to the portal. He tossed them through effortlessly, and then a moment later clambered through himself.

Skidding across the cool floor of the treasure vault, Odin gasped for breath. Before he could get his feet under him, big hands swept him up and sat him upright. His father's face, purple with fury, glowered at him.

"What in all the nine realms were you DOING?" roared Bor, and Odin would almost rather have been facing all four creatures on his lonesome. He cringed before Bor while he ranted. "If this girl -" and here Bor pointed to Frigga, who stood to the side, shaking with fear - "hadn't come at once and told me what foolishness you'd gotten up to, you'd be dead now. Do you hear? DEAD!"

Odin tried to stammer an apology, but Bor threw him over his knee and thrashed him with a fury Odin had never known before. Odin's clothes protected him somewhat, and as it was when Bor was finished, Odin's skin was welted red from the back of his neck to his buttocks. Nál, weeping, flung himself prostrate before Bor.

"It was my fault," Nál told him. "I wanted to go! Don't beat Odin!"

"You - you!" Bor was at a loss for words. "Did you not think they were locked away for a _reason_!" He smacked Nál in the ear, sending the boy to the floor.

Nál curled into a ball, one hand clutching his ear. Frigga crawled across the floor to Odin, gathering him in her arms, as though to shelter him. Odin trembled. His skin felt as though it were blistered. He looked over to Nál and almost began crying. He had not thought Nál would try to take all the blame and save him from his thrashing.

King Bor slumped against the wall, sinking down into a slump. He buried his face in his hands, and even in the dim light, Odin could see the grief etched on his features. When Bor lifted his head, something wet glistened in his eyes, and even through his own pain, Odin knew that his father had been in fear for his life.


	3. Chapter 3

Mimir had been shocked to see Odin and Nál in the doorway of Bestla's bedchambers, King Bor's hands heavy weights on their shoulders. Bestla, who had been sitting with Mimir by the hearth, rose and stepped forward, hand over heart; then Bor caught her by the elbow and pulled her aside, speaking to her in low, dangerous tones. Stony-faced, Mimir looked over the boys and thought for the first time that entrusting Nál to King Bor's care had been a mistake.

Odin stood with shoulders hunched; Mimir would shortly learn he held himself awkwardly like that because Bor had just whipped him within an finger's breadth of his life. A red mark marred the side of Nál's face that was fading to purple. Jotun younglings, as a rule, were never chastised with the belt or the flat of a hand; spoiled as babies, their bad behavior was ignored or shamed until they learned to ape their elders. And Nál, the precious only fruit of an ancient, poisoned tree, was most spoiled and cosseted of all Jotun younglings. Mimir was not surprised to see that both younglings trembled. He _was_ surprised to see that, lit by the sun so that their shadows fell behind them twice their own heights, they clasped hands. In that moment, Mimir felt as though he saw some glimpse of their destiny: hand in hand, fully grown, each giving strength to the other. He saw this and wondered at it.

Looking to Bestla, Mimir saw her clutching at King Bor, tears standing in her eyes. Mimir knew at once that she was no help at all. So he busied himself with looking after the boys, and as he dressed their scratches and scrapes, they whispered the story to him. Of the mirror, and the puppet creatures, and of Frigga, and how her mother had come, flushed-faced, to fetch her just before King Bor marched them here, to Bestla's bedchambers. King Bor lifted his voice to a shout, and then when Bestla could only mourn softly like a dove, he left her and stalked over to Odin and Nál. He looked them over and, satisfied that they were alive and well, turned and left, Bestla following behind with her clothing billowing around her.

So Mimir put Odin and Nál to bed, and they slept beside each other, curled together like puppies. Later, they would find Nál lost some hearing in that ear, but at that time he didn't know or miss it.

* * *

><p>The boys were on King Bor's bad side for some days, but soon enough Bor had other things at the forefront of his mind, and if he did forget their wrongdoing, he ceased to think on it. This was Bor's nature: in war he was fearsome, but afterward he thought not on what sparked the war to begin with; and when he quarrelled with Bestla, and their household became a battlefield, he was quick to forget their quarrels and ever-faithful Bestla welcomed him back with open arms.<p>

In those days, Valhöll was not yet the hall of the brave and righteous dreamed of by men. Odin would have it torn down and built up again, shining and majestic; but that would not be for many years yet. When he was a boy, Valhöll was smaller, dominated by an enormous table at which Bor sat at the head. All night the mead flowed, and merrymakers would sleep away half the morning sprawled, drunk, amongst the rushes on the floor. The ceiling had long since been blackened by soot and smoke from the hearth. Bor's men-at-arms drank and wenched and wrestled and shared war stories, often much exaggerated. As they grew, Odin and Nál loved to spend raucous nights here, although Mimir despaired of the vocabulary they learned from Bor's warriors. The boys would fall asleep curled against the warm stones lining the hearth, ashes drifting onto their eyelids.

This was one such night. The embers were dying in the hearth, and Nál and Odin were leaning on one another, their eyes drooping. Valhöll's double doors gave a mighty creak, and Odin's eyes fluttered open. A wolf ambled into the hall, its jaws gaping. Odin's eyes shot open and his pupils narrowed to pinpricks, and he trembled so that he woke Nál as well.

Booming laughter; it came from Bor Asgard's-King. He stepped down from his seat to greet the wolf, who Odin now saw stood on two legs. The wolf's great head fell back to reveal a young warrior with mouse-colored hair and a thin-lipped smile. King Bor congratulated him on his hunt; from his words Odin learned that this young man had slain the King Wolf, and wore his skin. Odin looked upon him, and conceived a strange and sickening hatred for this man. It seemed to him poorly done, for King Wolf to fall to some churl, and to have his skin worn like that of a common beast. He looked to Nál, and saw that his friend felt the same.

The other warriors gathered around King Wolf's killer to wonder at him. The wolves that stalked the forests of Asaheim were larger than any wolves that men had known on Midgard, or ever would know. Horses rolled their eyes in terror at the scent of them; King Wolf could crack a skull in his jaws. King Wolf and his mate were rarely seen, but Odin and Nál had sometimes awakened by their moon-song. The killer of King Wolf, by name Avarr, told the tale of how he had done it. He had shucked the pelt, and let it drag about on the floor.

Odin disdained Avarr and his tale. He rose, and followed by Nál, made his way to his own chambers. "Did the beast take any of Bor's cattle?" Nál asked him as they navigated the dark halls by memory and not by sight.

"No," Odin said. "Only game."

"So why was it done?"

"So that Avarr might boast of it, I suppose," Odin sighed. They had reached their chambers. He rolled into his bed, bunching the blankets about him into a cocoon.

Nál perched atop his own bed, red eyes a-glow. "Does King Wolf's mate have pups?"

"They must, by now." Odin thought it over. Their pups must be big enough to leave the den; he wondered if King Wolf's mate could hunt enough meat for them all. "I wish there was some way we could see them. I would lay eyes upon them."

Nál considered this. "I could track them," he said softly. "Naught escapes a Jotun's nose. But to do so would take us deep into the woods. Mimir would not stand for it."

"Mimir need not know," Odin said.

* * *

><p>In those days, the woods of both Asaheim and Midgard were vast beyond comprehension, and untouched. The trees, silent sentinels, cast deep shadows in which nothing grew but briar and mushrooms and strange, secret creatures unnamed by <em>aesir<em> or man. One's feet sank into the moist wet earth, and everything smelled loamy and full of life. It was not unknown for one of King Bor's men to go riding through the forest on well-worn trails, and never be seen again. Great boar roamed the forest, and their sows fiercer still, with squealing piglets hidden in burrows. Fleet-footed deer were food for Bor's table, and until recently they had fed King Wolf and his family.

Odin and Nál slipped from Asgard before daybreak, and walked half the morning before they could no longer peer through the dense greenery and see Asgard's highest spire. They carried knives and a small spear, but had they been both Asgardian boys, they would've died for certes, for they had left the trail. But Nál's nose could lead them back home, just as it led them towards King Wolf's den. On Jotunheim, or so Nál said, everyone hunted by scent; all creatures there could blend in with the ice and snow, or failing that, the black rock. Eyesight alone was not sufficient to hunt by. So Jotuns trusted their noses, and they would've done better to trust them more, for eyes might deceive, and show what one wishes to see; but a nose can only tell what's there or what has been there.

In the moist earth they found the pinprick tracks of deer, and their sharp eyes could make out the forms of game birds hiding themselves in the underbrush, camouflaged so well that they were given away only by the outline of their bodies. Odin and Nál came plunging out from dead underbrush to find themselves sinking into the mud of a creek. On the opposite bank Odin spotted the remains of a campfire: a circle of blackened stones cradling ash. "Hunters have been this way, and recently," Odin whispered. A worn spot on a nearby tree was mute evidence that a horse had been tied there. "Do you smell old blood?"

"No," confessed Nál. "They camped here before they made a kill. But I have the scene of the one called Avarr; he was here." His nostrils worked busily, but beneath the smell of _aesir_ and their horses he could smell only deer, rabbits, and other such game. "They must've headed up river, and crossed, so that their scent washed away. This is the way they took to kill King Wolf." He splashed into the water, crossing where the sand had built up and formed a natural walkway to the other side. Odin followed after, holding his shoes in hand.

They had not gone far when Nál halted and held up a hand, beckoning for Odin. "Something's amiss," he whispered. "I smell tree sap."

Odin shot him a look. "We are in a forest, Nál."

Nál shook his head. "It's the work of two-handed creatures. _Aesir_. Someone has been snapping sapplings as they came this way. Look about; you will find a snare."

Not so far ahead lay a gully. The stream had once flowed this way, and had hollowed out a path for itself; the stream had changed course, but the gully remained. There they found a great snare, so large that small game might leap by unharmed; but great beasts would stumble into it head first, and when they attempted to flee, the noose would tighten, embracing them like a lover. There they laid, eyes rolling in terror, until the hunter came looking for them. Nál and Odin knew at once that this had been the end of King Wolf.

"So this is how Avarr took King Wolf," Odin said, as he cut through the snare with his knife. "And now he's laid another trap for King Wolf's mate."

"Spread your scent around," Nál suggested. "If a wolf's nose is as good as a Jotun's, it will not come this way again. The hunters covered their own scents with the tree sap and fox's urine. We can do no more for King Wolf's family, I think." So they made sure to stomp about, and leave evidence of their coming with foot prints and the touches of their hands on the trees and stones. They looked about for more snares but found none. At last, knowing naught else to do, they set out again, following the faint scent of Avarr and his horse, which Nál felt would lead to the trail again. Sure enough, they came stumbling out of the underbrush not an hour later, Odin pulling leaves from his hair and Nál stamping mud from his boots. They followed the trail back towards Asgard.

They had not gone far when they heard the sound of a horse galloping up behind them. The wind blew away from them, hiding the scent, for had Nál known he would've told Odin to hide. Within moments, none other than Avarr rounded the bend in the trail, riding straight for them. "Halt!" he cried, pulling up before them. "Do you make mock of me, boys! I found my snare cut by a knife, and a knife must have a hand to wield it."

"We make no mock of you which you did not first make of yourself," retorted Nál. At that, Avarr's face purpled with rage.

Odin jumped in, not wanting Avarr to dismount and beat Nál bloody. "Go away, and we'll not tell the king my father of your harassment." A cunning look came over his face. "Oh, does Bor Asgard's-King know of your bravery of setting snares in his woods?"

At that, Avarr swung down from his saddle. Odin braced himself; he had not thought the man would lay hands on him. But Avarr's fury burned hot, and seized his mind like a fever. Avarr looked murderous. Nál snarled at him, brandishing his nails like claws.

Before Avarr could strike out at them, another rider and horse came crashing out of the trees and brambles. He wore a black cloak, and rode a black horse. Avarr, startled, dropped his fist.

"Odin, Nál!" called the rider, as he pulled up a-breast of them. "Do not wander off again. Our lesson is not yet over."

"And who are you?" said Avarr, his brows knitting together in consternation.

The rider spared a glance at him. "I am the prince's tutor. You are not needed here; return to Asgard."

"These wretches spoiled my snare and -"

The rider's horse clawed at the ground with a forefoot and snorted. "It matters not. Leave now." The rider leaned over his saddle to squint at Avarr. "Or do you wish King Bor to know you meant to lay hands on his only son?"

At that, Avarr stumbled backwards, groping blindly for his horse's bridle. He clambered back in the saddle, glared fiercely at the boys and their tutor one last time, then galloped off. Once he was well out of sight, the rider dismounted, and changed in the twinkling of an eye into his true form, that of Mimir. Thrilled at the sight of his uncle, Odin ran into his arms, but Mimir turned reproachful eyes on him.

"I told King Bor I was taking the two of you for a lesson in the woods today. Had I not lied, you would've both suffered at Bor's hands. Know this, I shall not lie for you again."

Nál had the grace to look ashamed. "Forgive us, Mimir."

Odin, for his part, tried to explain why they had spent half the morning roaming the backwoods, but Mimir would hear none of it. He had his charges follow behind him while he rode the horse and would not speak to them. Nál looked miserable, but Odin could not understand why Mimir shamed them so. Mimir was his own uncle, why _shouldn't_ he lie on their behalf? They had not snuck out to do some evil. He felt that only right had been done by destroying Avarr's snare and perhaps saving King Wolf's mate and pups. Nothing had been harmed but for Avarr's pride. _When I am king_, Odin vowed, _my court will never host cowards and braggarts such as Avarr. I will be proud of my men. Their ranks will include only the brave - true warriors. Asgard will stand for something better than what it does now_.

Nál and Odin had thought to fib to King Bor and tell him that Mimir had taken them into the woods to train them in tracking game, but upon arriving to his hall they found King Bor had forgotten all about them being missing in the first place. Bestla seemed to know something, for she gathered them into her arms and scolded them softly about putting such a burden on Mimir. "Mimir loves you fair better than honor," she told them. "Never give Mimir cause to regret that again."

None of them knew at that time what Mimir would do on their behalf, and what torment they would put him through. They stood innocent of it. Had they any inkling, perhaps history would've changed. And perhaps not.

* * *

><p>The next day, Odin came to Mimir very early in the day, at dawn's awakening. He had lain awake in the night, thinking of <em>seid<em>, and how Mimir could appear in the form of whatever he so chose. He had dreamed of walking in the footsteps of wolves and flying on the wings of ravens.

"I wish to skin-walk, uncle," Odin told him.

Mimir narrowed his eyes. "You are clever, Odin. Perhaps the cleverest student I have known. But such magick is far advanced. Even you must crawl before you can run."

Odin's mouth twisted. "I am a king's son, and the son of a king's son. Must I ever crawl?" he wondered aloud.


End file.
